Magic
by Kate Christie
Summary: "Kate sits in the weak March light, palms pressed to the rough wooden planks of the sun-warmed bench, and she smiles." A Castle one-shot for spring.


Light laps languidly at the fingertips of the girl holding the bowl, standing among the lily pads in the Conservatory Garden at 104th Street in Central Park.

Kate sits in the weak March light, palms pressed to the rough wooden planks of the sun-warmed bench, and she smiles.

Her mother used to bring her here.

Quarter past two on a Thursday, and the last thought on her mind is murder.

No, the first, second, and third thoughts are of spring.

After the long, cold winter, this thaw is overdue.

The spiky tips of daffodil leaves poke up through the fresh, loamy mulch arcing around the stone path on this corner of the park, three blocks north of her cardiologist's office at Sinai.

The tulips are on their way, too, the wide, curving spires of green nudging up not far behind their sunny, soon-to-be-yellow friends.

Once a year she comes up, lets the specialists take pictures of her beating, battered heart, listens as her doctor quotes percentages, assures her all is well, asks about her tolerance for exertion, chest pain, shortness of breath.

Other than Burke, it is her only reminder of that sunny spring day when she fell down and stained the bright green blades red.

Breathing in the tang of upturned earth, she shuts her eyes, revels in the red and gold afterimages that fade slowly behind her eyelids. The outline of the greened-over copper children, forever suspended in play in the fountain before her, shifts as her eyes move.

Her mother's image flashes from memory, kneeling before her at this bench, futilely dabbing paper napkins at the sticky-sweet drips of ice cream curving unruly paths around her daughter's wrist, down her forearm, Kate all the while giggling her way through her treat, her tongue not quite quick enough to catch every last drop of pink, strawberry goodness.

A peal of laughter rings out to her right, and Kate opens her eyes, half-sure she will find that 30-year-younger version of herself in her green cotton sundress on the next bench over.

Instead, she finds a little blue-eyed boy, trotting along on chubby legs, holding hands with his father, the apples of his cheeks glowing pink as their gazes meet and spark at some shared secret.

Just then, the boy looks up, the bow of his lips curving up at the corners.

"Mama! Daddy, we found her!"

Christopher breaks away from his father to run the last few yards into her waiting arms, squeals as she swings him into the air and then curls him into her lap, limbs tangling, body curving over his, nose pressing into the honey-bright waves at the crown of his head.

Castle takes his place beside her, leaning in to press the point of his chin into her shoulder. His voice rumbles in her ear.

"Everything good?"

Nuzzling her cheek into her son's hair, Kate finds her husband's eyes, the blue meeting hers, mellow and wide.

"Perfect."

His smile spreads from his lips across every feature.

"Good."

Christopher wriggles away to explore the almost-blooming garden, and Castle scoots closer, wraps an arm around her waist, laces his fingers with hers.

A handful of breaths, ribs expanding in the circle of his strength, and she cannot contain it any longer.

"She'll have green eyes."

His grip subtly tightens as his nose turns to tickle the shell of her ear.

"'She', huh? You remember we haven't actually started trying again, right?"

Their son darts by in search of dragons, or dinosaurs, or maybe unicorns, face upturned to the sapphire sky.

"What did I say the last time?" she teases.

His breath huffs out against her cheek before he answers.

"Blued-eyed boy with curly hair."

Her eyebrow rises as her lips part, tongue flashing pink behind her teeth at the edges of her answering smile.

Castle rolls his eyes, but his grin gives away his gladness when he continues.

"Fine. Yes. Your gut has magical properties."

That pulls a laugh from her throat as his lips latch onto her ear.

"So what do you say to making a little magic tonight?"

Goosebumps flare along her spine as the familiar simmer starts low in her belly. Turning into the warmth of his body, she lets her lips ghost over his as she smirks.

"Abracadabra."

# * # * # * #

Abracadabra - from an Aramaic phrase meaning "I create as I speak."

-Kushner, Lawrence (1998). The Book of Words: Talking Spiritual Life, Living Spiritual Talk. Jewish Lights Publishing. p. 11.

"I am sure there is Magic in everything, only we have not sense enough to get hold of it and make it do things for us…."

― Frances Hodgson Burnett, _The Secret Garden_

This area of Central Park is called the Conservatory Garden, and the pond in the English section contains a statue of Mary and Dickon, which can be seen here, based on Frances Hodgson Burnett's characters.

Theweblicist dot com (slash) wordpress (slash) 2009 (slash) 09 (slash) 01 (slash) ny-central-park-conservatory-gardens-statues/


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